by Ray Flynt
Our responses weren’t quick or effusive, prompting him to say, “Seems like I’m just in time for the wake.”
Todd spoke softly. “Carlin’s not here. He’s been arrested.”
“He needs better tax accountants,” Andy quipped.
I stood and grasped Andy by the shoulder. “Carlin’s been charged with murder.”
Andy’s eyes bugged out at the news. I’ve seldom seen him speechless.
Todd broke the silence with the announcement that, under the circumstances, any talk of acquisition would have to wait until another day.
I’d witnessed Andy’s slow-burn before and figured he’d be pissed at having traveled all that way with nothing to show for it. I patted his back a second time, hoping he wouldn’t blurt out a statement he’d later regret.
Andy froze. He stared at the windows before raising his hand and pointing toward the pool. “Who the hell is that?”
A young man with bronzed skin, wearing a swimsuit more revealing than an Olympic diver’s, padded across the pool deck.
A smile spread across Megan’s face. “That’s Ricky.”
23
Multiple thoughts flitted through my brain, not the least of which concerned Ricky’s identity and his relationship to Megan. I’d seen her adoring look before, at Nevan’s Bistro when she stared at Joel. If it weren’t for her facial reaction, I might have taken Ricky for a scantily-clad pool guy, although he looked a little older than a twenty-something found in that profession. Megan hadn’t taken long to mourn Joel’s loss.
I hoped Jackson hadn’t been coy with me when we chatted at Denny’s. What had happened in those five hours between when I last saw the detective and him showing up at Casa de Antigua with an arrest warrant?
Megan stood and sidled next to my brother as he gawked in the direction of the pool. She draped an arm over his shoulder. “Can I get you a drink?”
Andy leered back. “I’ll take a Bloody Mary.”
Megan snapped her fingers to summon the maid.
Todd Vicary stood, pulled out his cell phone, and walked toward the foyer. He glanced back at Megan’s antics with my brother and rolled his eyes.
When the maid arrived for her instructions, I seized the opportunity to pull my brother aside. In the words of Andy’s first wife, Diane, “He’s got the libido of a feral tomcat.” Only one thing could curb his flirtations: protecting the family business.
I gestured through the archway toward Todd, and whispered to my brother of Todd’s non-verbal reactions to Megan’s wantonness. With Carlin under arrest, I proposed Andy take the corporate jet to Valley Forge for a meeting with Herron Industry’s Chief Operating Officer, Iggy Armstrong.
“You can stay at the house. It would give you a chance to visit with Dad. He’s been asking about you.”
Our conversation ended when Megan handed Andy his Bloody Mary then headed poolside to deliver a martini to Ricky, who was lounging in the shade of a cabana near the diving board.
As Todd strolled into the living room, Andy piped up. “I’m traveling to Philadelphia for a day or two. Would you like to hitch a ride?”
Todd glanced at his watch. “What time?”
Andy shrugged. “Early afternoon.”
“Sure. I have a couple things here I need to wrap up first.”
“Great. I’ll see you at the Boca airport at two. On our way, you can call Mr. Armstrong and get us on his schedule tomorrow to discuss the subsidiary acquisition.”
Having already accepted the plane ride, Todd nodded at the suggestion. Not surprising, Andy hadn’t offered me a ride on the corporate jet.
Andy downed the rest of his cocktail before departing. He pointed toward the pool. “Looks like she’ll be occupied for a while.”
Megan, wearing a pink bikini, had ditched her sun dress and cuddled next to Ricky.
Todd stared toward the patio shaking his head. “If only Carlin knew.”
I was pretty sure Carlin knew, if not the details, at least her pattern of behavior. After all, he’d employed Sal Zalinski to keep an eye on Joel.
“Mr. Frame, I just got off the phone with headquarters. We’d like to hire you to assist with Mr. Trambata’s defense.”
“What he really needs is a good criminal defense attorney, not one with a corporate background.” I didn’t bother to mention I wasn’t licensed as a PI in the State of Maryland.
“Our general counsel’s office is working on it. Any recommendations?”
I retrieved Mike McMillan’s business card from my wallet and called his cell. “It’s Brad Frame. Who’s the best criminal defense attorney in Baltimore?”
“Depends on the crime.”
“Homicide.”
“Um...Lucas Emmanuel is the best.” After a pause, “He’s black, if that matters.”
It didn’t concern me. My parents instilled a belief in the content of one’s character. No one debated the skin color of the more than three thousand souls who died at the World Trade Center. “Not an issue for me.”
“Good.” McMillan gave me Emmanuel’s phone number. “He doesn’t suffer fools. In front of a jury, I hear he’s a cross between Dirty Harry and a televangelist.”
I relayed the information, noting only a slight tic from Vicary when I said Emmanuel was black.
“I’ll call him this afternoon. We need answers. We’re not even sure where Mr. Trambata is right now, and Megan’s been little help.”
“Since county law enforcement came along, I suspect Carlin’s already on his way to Baltimore. Call the lawyer; he’ll know what to do at that end.”
Todd nodded. “You haven’t accepted our offer to help with Mr. Trambata’s defense.”
“I’m willing to help. Lucas Emmanuel may have his own investigator. Mention me when you talk with him, and I’ll follow up.”
“We were impressed with your work in DC. I speak for the company when I say we’d like your involvement.”
I smiled. Praise for my work in locating Carlin Trambata ranked alongside compliments for having dimples—I had very little to do with it. Carlin went underground, for reasons I still didn’t know, resurfacing on his own schedule.
Todd held up his index finger. “We also plan to offer a $100,000 reward for information leading to the real killer. Our PR department is deploying to Baltimore to get that story out on the news. You’d be eligible for that reward.”
“Was that Carlin’s idea?”
Todd shook his head. “No. Iggy Armstrong made the decision.”
Rewards can be helpful. We offered money for information after Mom and Lucy were killed. I feared one of that magnitude might draw lots of crazies offering misleading tips.
Todd excused himself, reminding me he had to catch up with my brother for a two o’clock flight. I promised to touch base after I’d had a chance to confer with Attorney Emmanuel.
Todd’s departure left me alone with the household staff, Mrs. Trambata, and her new friend. Time to find out what Megan really knew about Carlin and Baltimore.
I rolled open one of the sliding glass doors fronting the patio and marched toward the cabana Megan shared with Ricky. Two bodies writhed on a teak chaise with a blue cushion. Ricky’s back was to me—his hand on the verge of cupping Megan’s left breast. Her eyes widened when she saw me. I stopped, then used my index finger to beckon her in my direction.
She sighed and planted a kiss on his forehead. “Hold that thought.”
Pointing at the sun dress she’d draped over a nearby chair, I snapped, “Cover up.”
Megan pouted but complied. I settled into a seat out of Ricky’s earshot and gestured at an empty chair for her to sit.
“I see how much you’re missing Joel.”
“Fuck you!”
I hadn’t expected her to drop her artificial front so quickly. It made what I had to say easier. “I wish I’d wised up to you sooner. Joel might still be alive.”
She glared, fists on her hips. “Don’t lay that on me.”
“Oh, I kno
w you have an alibi, but you sleeping around pissed off Carlin, and now he’s facing a murder charge.”
Megan spat. “He didn’t do it.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He told me.”
“When?”
“I went to his room when they let him put shoes and socks on. The detective came along so we weren’t alone. At some point, when his back was to the detective, C.J. mouthed framed in my direction.”
“Did the detective say what evidence they had to prompt Carlin’s arrest?”
Megan shook her head.
“Why didn’t you mention Carlin’s comment about being framed earlier, when Todd asked what happened?”
“Todd only looks out for one person...Todd.”
It takes one to know one.
Ricky propped himself up on one elbow and shouted, “When you comin’ back?”
Megan caught my gaze, as if expecting me to answer. I gestured in Ricky’s direction. “What’s his story?”
“Enrico and his older brother manage C.J.’s island estate. They’re here to pilot the Temptress back to Martinique. They were going to leave Sunday. Carlin planned to go with ’em but now. . . .”
Sounds like Enrico’s been tempted to screw around with the bosses’ wife.
Megan must’ve read my mind. She popped me her middle finger, and called out to him. “I’ll be right over, Ricky.”
She stood, slipped off the sun dress and sashayed in his direction.
I let myself out. Jackson must be on solid ground to have secured a warrant for Carlin’s arrest. I was willing to bet they’d soon be testing his DNA. I couldn’t understand why Carlin would signal to Megan he’d been framed, if the detective hadn’t shared any details of the evidence they had in the case. Of course, I had no idea if Megan had been truthful on that point.
As I neared my car, the man I’d seen aboard the yacht earlier rounded the corner of the house. At close range, except for a pencil mustache and a little gray at his temples, he resembled Enrico. He waved at me and flashed a set of brilliant white teeth, whistling as he neared the front door.
With Megan around, I couldn’t keep my mind out of the gutter. All I could think was: Ménage a trois?
24
Friday, October 5, 2001
Over coffee and Danish in the atrium of my Baltimore hotel, I speed-read the front page of The New York Times. News of Barry Bonds hitting his record-tying 70th homer of the season columned beside word of Prime Minister Tony Blair detailing Osama bin Laden’s link to the U.S. terror attacks.
Thanks to Todd Vicary, I had an eleven o’clock appointment with Attorney Lucas Emmanuel.
At my suggestion, Andy had taken over the Bryn Mawr mansion until Sunday. Since it looked like I might be in Baltimore for a few days, I invited Valerie to join me for the weekend. She accepted, and I promised to pick her up at the train station later that afternoon. There’s nothing like combining business with pleasure. No matter how the day may go, I knew my evening would be enjoyable.
Without an appointment, and before my meeting with the attorney, I stopped by Detective Jackson’s office. I asked the receptionist if he were available and was told to take a seat. I wasn’t aiming for an element of surprise, just knew that if I went through regular channels it might be Tuesday before I could get an appointment. My hope was that if Jackson were around, he’d see me for a few minutes.
Jackson planted himself, hands on hips, in the middle of the hallway to my left. “What the hell are you doing here?” He made a sweeping gesture. “Come on back.”
Jackson had an honest-to-goodness office, not the cubbyhole I expected. Photos adorned the wall, showing Jackson with fellow officers and civilians that I suspected were local elected officials. I took the empty chair next to his desk.
“Coffee?”
“Sure.”
“Cream? Sugar?”
I shook my head.
A Mr. Coffee machine belched as the last of the heated water drained through the basket of grinds into the glass carafe. Jackson poured two mugs, handing one to me.
“Hear you got your man in the Driscoll murder.”
He settled into his seat. “Thanks to your tip.”
I sipped the coffee—a lot stronger brew than my four-star hotel served. “I’m not looking for credit. Curious as to how you nailed him.”
Jackson leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Trambata traveled to Baltimore in plain sight. It only took three phone calls till we found the hotel where he stayed—registered under his own name. He arrived there by taxi from the train station and checked in last Saturday afternoon, the day of the murder. Trambata kept to himself and ordered most of his meals via room service. He checked out mid-morning on Monday, again taking a cab to his train.”
“You said most of his meals were via room service.”
“Very observant. Keep it up and you’ll make a good private detective.”
I laughed at his insult, encouraging him to continue.
“On Sunday afternoon, he ordered a small pizza from a local Italian restaurant—Antonello’s.”
Jackson spoke with the confidence of a detective who’d dotted his I’s and crossed all the T’s.
“By the time my team got there, the room had been cleaned twice and housekeeping didn’t report anything unusual. Sgt. Grimes asked how trash was handled and learned that a dumpster behind the hotel was emptied pre-dawn on Mondays and Thursdays. Our crew went through every bag of trash in that dumpster. They even brought in construction lights to keep the search going. We found a trash bag with an Antonello’s pizza box that also contained a kitchen knife.”
I leaned forward in my seat.
“The knife had a partial print and there were traces of blood—human blood—embedded where the blade met the wooden handle. In the same bag, a white shirt with blood stains. Both items are currently undergoing tests to match Driscoll’s DNA.” He took a gulp of coffee. “Funny though, only one slice had been eaten. It was like he ordered the pizza just to have a container to dispose of the knife.”
“How do you know someone else in the hotel didn’t order that brand of pizza?”
Jackson peered at me with his chin tucked against his chest. “Whose side are you on? I thought Driscoll was your friend?”
“Well, as Joel used to say when we were in eighth grade, ‘Just checkin’ your math.’ When will you have the DNA results?”
“We put a rush on it. I’m guessin’ next Tuesday or Wednesday. But the pizza box definitely links to Trambata. The delivery slip with his name and room number was still taped to the top. The shirt is monogrammed.”
I wondered if the monogram was C.J. or C.W.T.
The phone rang. “Jackson.” He squinted and scratched his forehead as he listened. “Can’t DeLuca handle it?” After a pause. “I’ll be tied up here another five minutes or so.” He looked at me for affirmation.
I nodded.
“I’ll catch up with you in a few.” Jackson hung up the phone.
I thought about our late night discussion over breakfast food while detectives gathered all this evidence. “You knew all this when we met at Denny’s the other night?”
“Not everything. Hope you understand I had to play these cards close to my chest. Didn’t want Trambata skipping the country.”
“What else you got?”
Jackson cocked his head and frowned. “The murder weapon not enough for you?”
“Well, until you have a genetic match, the suspect could claim to have been cleaning his fingernails before the knife slipped and he cut himself. I’m betting you’ve got another detail you’re itching to share.”
A smile erupted on the detective’s face. “Yeah, it’s a pretty good one too. Trambata called a cab Saturday night to take him to Parkin Street, that’s just beyond the line of trees near where Driscoll’s body was found at the train museum. After taking Trambata into custody, we seized his phone. Through cell records, we confirmed he called for another
cab back to his hotel from that same spot.”
“Interesting.” The only reaction I could muster after what the detective told me. To free Carlin Trambata, Lucas Emmanuel would need all his skills, with a little Harry Houdini thrown in.
Jackson stood, signaling the end of our meeting.
“Where’s Trambata now?”
“He’s in the Baltimore Detention Center.” Jackson laughed. “They’ve been trying to modernize that place for years. Maybe Trambata—with all his money—will contribute to bettering his conditions.”
“His lawyer wants to meet with me later this morning.”
Jackson snorted.
“You know him?”
“Oh yeah, Lucas and me both go to Bethel A.M.E. church. Let me put it this way, my pew is on the “right” side.”
25
I cooled my heels for a half hour in the reception area for Lucas Emmanuel, Counselor at Law. It was an easy four-block walk from my hotel, handy to Baltimore’s Inner Harbor shops and restaurants, which I planned to check out for lunch.
The receptionist made no excuses for his tardiness but kept offering me coffee, bottled water or soda. I declined. Magazines strewn about an end table included an assortment of Ebony and Jet, as well as People and Vogue—address labels cut out to shield the identity of the subscriber. A person had drawn a moustache and goatee on Time magazine’s photo of George W. Bush, their Person of the Year for 2000.
No one else came or went in the waiting area, until finally, at eleven thirty, the receptionist ushered me into Emmanuel’s private office. He remained seated at his desk. We exchanged pleasantries. There were two other doors in the room. Perhaps one led to a hallway through which his previous visitor had left incognito.
He gestured toward a wooden chair across from him. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” Emmanuel looked older than I expected, the clay-colored skin of his forehead extended up and over the top of his head, set off with short salt-and-pepper hair on the sides. He looked gaunt and grouchy, complaining, after I got situated, “I’m not exactly sure why you’re here.”